One Winter’s Day: A feel-good winter romance

by Laura Briggs

  “So who do we know who would be friends with someone at Accented Creations?” mused Natalie, as she propped her feet on her desk. “It would have to be somebody who didn’t run with a casual crowd, clearly.”

  “Someone sophisticated and snobby. Or who wants to be,” said Tessa. She propped her chin on one hand—the latest dialing of the number had just landed her with Chopin’s ‘Nocturne in D-Flat Major.’ “Someone willing to gladhand and fawn to make a connection with anybody who matters, so they have dozens of low- to medium-level contacts from every exclusive vendor.”

  “Probably someone with an over-inflated ego, who just lives for collecting those names,” said Natalie with a snort of laughter—one which died short, suddenly. She met Tessa’s eye.

  “Do you think—?” Tessa said.

  “You know it,” said Natalie scornfully. “How could we not think of it before?”

  Stefan Groeder, the firm’s original fourth partner, had been exactly that sort of person. He had kept a color-coded Rolodex in his cubicle with numbers cross-referenced in his phone’s contact book—all listed by their chic status or current ratings under Michelin, BBB, and the local Hospitality Today reviews. If anyone had wormed their way into a friendship at Accented Creations, it would be the planner behind the Cinderella wedding with a mouse-drawn white carriage designed exclusively for the rings. Of course, he was working in Paris now, but they couldn’t let a little obstacle like that stand in their way, right?

  “So if you wanted to infiltrate a business using Stefan’s name, what would you do?” said Natalie. “Call and pretend to be his secretary?”

  “It wouldn’t work, unless it was his number on their call screen,” pointed out Tessa. “They screen their calls, obviously.”

  “So you go there as his secretary. In person. Maybe you get lucky and whoever he knows at the business lets you talk to someone. His contact was probably somebody on the lower tiers of the company, anyway.”

  “Would that work?” said Tessa.

  “Maybe,” said Natalie. “I think subterfuge is worth a try at this point.”

  “Would you do it?” Tessa asked. “Pretend to be his assistant or whatever?”

  Natalie laughed. “There’s no way they would ever believe that Stefan would hire me as his secretary. I couldn’t fool anybody for more than two minutes before something obnoxious blurted itself out. If you want this ruse to be convincing, it’ll have to be you or Ama who walks into their headquarters on his behalf.”

  “Ama in tailored tweeds? His assistant would have to be impeccably stylish in the business sense,” said Tessa. “They would have to look—”

  “—amazing in a suit,” concluded Natalie.

  A thoughtful pause. “There’s only one person I can think of who fits the bill,” Natalie said with an impish smile.

  Tessa was toying with the edges of a book on perfect bridal bouquets lying on the desk. “Do you think your friend Cal would do it?” she asked, lifting her gaze to her business partner’s.

  Another incredulous laugh came from Natalie’s lips. “Cal?” she repeated. “Why would I drag him downtown to a snooty floral empire when we have a perfect resource in our fourth partner?”

  “I just thought we might ask someone new,” said Tessa. “I’m sure Blake doesn’t want us bothering him every time we have a crisis.”

  “What’s every time? There was one other time, Tess,” said Natalie. “He won’t mind. He walks in, he introduces himself, he makes an appointment for us. Ask him—I’ll bet you twenty bucks he says yes.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Tessa. “You can ask, if you want. I hate to drag him away from his project.”

  “Why?” said Natalie bluntly. “You didn’t mind before.”

  The lack of an answer from Tessa was a confession. “There’s something going on between you two, isn’t there?” said Natalie shrewdly.

  “No,” said Tessa quickly. The blush vanished from her cheeks almost before it became visible. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Then why won’t you ask him to help us out for an hour?”

  “I told you. I don’t want to bother him again.”

  “Is that the only reason?” said Natalie. “If it is, then maybe we should find another contractor who doesn’t need to be tiptoed around so carefully—”

  “All right, fine. I’ll ask.” Tessa dropped the book on the desk again. “If that’s how you’re going to be about this.” She flounced toward the exit with an air of seeming exasperation for this task.

  “Tessa, what’s gotten into you?” Natalie’s amazed question went unanswered by her business partner, who had already left the room.

  Outside the room under construction, Tessa took several deep breaths. Calm and collected. Nothing to worry about here, it was just a simple question, one that didn’t call for clammy palms or a dry mouth. Why was she so nervous at the thought of asking Blake for a simple favor? He had agreed to this kind of thing, in a roundabout way. Hadn’t he?

  On the other side of the door, his Skilsaw whined through a sheet of lumber. Tessa gathered herself into a semblance of normality and pushed open the door.

  “So what do you want me to do?” said Blake, after hearing her initial explanation.

  He had powered off his saw, its cloud of wood chips and dust now settling over the front of his green flannel shirt as he faced Tessa. “Do you want me to pretend I’m him?”

  It was a thought she knew he would find unappealing after his prior issue with assuming Stefan’s identity, albeit only briefly. Not that Blake had complained about his false identity for that event, or even cast it up to her that she had created a fake reputation for him in their community as some sort of wedding genius—the successor to snooty Stefan with his Parisian promotion, even.

  Blake had been nice about everything, in fact. So there was no reason to be nervous in front of him for these simple conversations, as if, let’s say, their kiss after that wedding was a giant elephant in the room.

  “Not exactly,” said Tessa.

  “Than what?” Blake asked. “Specifics.”

  “We need someone to be his personal assistant.”

  “His secretary,” translated Blake flatly.

  “That’s one possible interpretation of it, yes,” said Tessa. “But does anybody say ‘secretary’ anymore? Is that politically correct?”

  Blake was quiet, albeit probably not in order to think of an answer to her question. For a sneaking second, she thought maybe he was sensing the same awkwardness as she was.

  “Why, may I ask?” he said, taking off the safety glasses, and brushing the sawdust from their rims. “What do these people do that means you can’t talk to them yourselves?”

  “Does it matter?” she asked. “It’s just for a quick little conversation with their receptionist.” They might all be bounced out of the foyer ten seconds later if the business’s front of house secretary had never heard of Stefan Groeder.

  “I like to know all the facts,” he said. “Humor me.”

  “We need an ‘in’ with this florist that we don’t have,” said Tessa. “They’re very exclusive, and they’re refusing to talk to anybody as low on the social scale as an insignificant event planning firm that’s only been in business for a few months. But we know they’ll talk to Stefan because of his reputation.”

  “But you’re the wedding planner,” said Blake. “You’ve had clients.”

  “Not ones who would impress this firm,” said Tessa. “They’re incredibly elite to the point of being inaccessible now for anybody but a customer who’s lucky enough to get through the drawbridge. But if we could get them to work with us even once, they’ll probably be willing to do it again. It would be a major boost for our reputation in the event planning community, bigger than any yet… it would mean an extra-beautiful floral arrangement for a client who wants her flowers to be extra special, too.” The only client they had had in months who could afford something exclusive to garnish her tables. The last weddin
g’s centerpieces were designed by Tessa, using wheat-colored broom straw and pink-painted daisies from a ‘pick your own bouquet’ business on a scenic highway route.

  She sighed. “Stefan’s reputation is worth more than mine right now, even with him in Paris,” she said. “He wasn’t one of the city’s top planners, but he’s helped organize events at Magnolia Manor, and he put together a tea for the Belles of the Ball society two Christmases ago. That’s major stuff. His style makes a statement.”

  “I’ve seen his work. This Stefan guy just covered everything in glitter and dazzled his way to success, and if I can see that, I’ll bet everyone else can. Don’t you think you’re overestimating his influence a little?”

  “His talent, yes. His influence, no,” said Tessa. “He was one of the city’s fast-rising event planners. As impossible as it may seem to you.” And to me, she added silently, although she would never have dared suggest it while Stefan was still around.

  “Why not build your own contacts?” suggested Blake. “Make your own reputation. I know you,” he said, looking at Tessa. “You can do this. I don’t think you need anybody’s help. Usually, you don’t want any help, as I recall, since you can handle yourself in most situations. Prove to this florist that you’re worth dealing with, or forget about them and use your judgment to pick somebody who’s probably better.”

  Did Tessa blush? It was hard to tell. “Thanks for the compliment,” she said, looking at the floor momentarily. “But this time isn’t the same. Honestly, I’m not the planner Stefan is—I don’t have his contacts or his clout in this city. Please, Blake. It would mean a lot to me—us, that is. And to our client, who’s a really nice person.” She glanced up. “This opportunity matters. Not just to my client personally, but to me as a professional. You would agree if you saw their work… or if you knew about Nadia’s wedding.”

  “I’ll have to take your word on it.”

  Tessa was now glancing at Blake, who rested both hands on the sawhorse behind him. This pause was awkward, she decided. It was the kiss that had done it. She never should have missed her mark and made contact with his lips instead. That kind of electricity couldn’t disappear just because a couple of months had passed without saying anything.

  He sighed. “Bring me the suit,” he said. “I’ll go with you to this place.”

  Tessa closed her eyes, hand clenching as if grasping this victory. “Thank you,” she said. “Tomorrow morning would be perfect. We’ll go early, before they schedule the showcase appointments and their potential customers are arriving.”

  “I will impersonate one of your coworkers only this one time, okay?” said Blake. “This is strictly a cameo appearance under our whole ‘fourth partner’ agreement.” He tossed his safety glasses onto his worktable, beside the saw. “So where is this place?”

  ‘This place’ was a snooty, dignified office space on the second floor of the Mercer-Howard Building, which had formerly been the city’s bank. Its old-fashioned interior sported shiny marble walls, fawn carpet, and sleek chrome fixtures. This space was only the office for the floral artists’ cooperative, with their greenhouse located on a four-acre garden outside of town, Tessa had read in Floral Today’s June issue.

  In a Hugo Boss suit and tie begged, stolen, or borrowed from the storage warehouse by Natalie’s friend Cal, Blake Ellingham approached the desk. He had offered to shave and even trim his hair before this morning’s appointment, but Tessa had vehemently nixed this idea, much to his evident surprise. From somewhere, he had produced a pair of trim, stylish black-frame eyeglasses that looked almost exactly like Stefan’s own. A perfect touch, Tessa thought.

  The receptionist behind Accented Creations’ desk was a college intern, Tessa pegged, who was probably hoping for a career at a city financial firm someday, instead of recording floral appointments for weddings and formal receptions. “May I help you?” he asked, looking up as he hastily stowed his cell phone’s screen out of sight beneath a floral supply catalog.

  “I’m here to set up a showing on behalf of Stefan Groeder’s clients,” said Blake in a crisp voice. “I assume one of your artists is available to discuss the pertinent details that my employer has in mind?” He held up a binder—Tessa’s planning notebook—with these words.

  The demeanor of the handyman had changed completely. His walk had developed a slight swagger, his posture becoming one of cool, slightly obnoxious command. It was the kind of bossy, intimidating look that fitted Stefan perfectly—and would fit his assistant perfectly, too, if such a person existed.

  “I thought he moved to Paris,” said the young man.

  For a second, Tessa panicked—this person was a little too aware of Stefan’s status, so it wasn’t going to work after all. But Blake calmly replied, “Well, obviously I’m his assistant from the U.S. branch of Le Petit Fleur dans la Rue in Paris, working on behalf of Mr. Groeder’s many clients here.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the young man suspiciously… and snobbily. “I wasn’t aware that Mr. Groeder had an assistant.”

  “I wasn’t aware that a planner as eminent as Mr. Groeder needed to announce that fact,” replied Blake, equally snobbily. Tessa and Natalie exchanged glances of amazement.

  “And who are these people with you?”

  “My own assistant, Ms. Miller,” Blake said, after a pause to think of a suitable excuse for his entourage. “And our… style consultant, Ms. Grenaldi,” he added, after a moment’s pause. “They’re both part of Stefan’s creative team for his client.”

  “You have your own assistant?” asked the intern.

  “Trust me. Anyone working for the likes of Mr. Groeder must have their own assistant, otherwise they would never accomplish anything,” said Blake. “Now, do I need to call him to reassure you of this fact? Or will my word that I’m planning an extremely important event on his behalf be enough? Time is money, and we’re all hoping we can make some today, aren’t we?”

  The intern wavered a little. “I guess I could see if one of the artists is available to talk to you,” he said, reluctantly lifting the office phone’s receiver.

  “Mr. Walsh? The PA of that event planner you know is out here, waiting to talk to you. No, not the one you like… the one who used to bring you those organic lattes.” The assistant was trying to keep his voice low, his face and body averted from them as he spoke. “Skinny… glasses… yeah, that’s the one. The Cinderella and elf guy. This is somebody from his office, apparently. Is it okay to send them in?”

  He hung up. “The fourth office on the right,” he said in a normal voice.

  “Fabulous,” said Blake.

  This magic card was enough to get them into the office of one of the firm’s artists, who was clearly annoyed but relieved that it wasn’t Stefan himself asking for a favor. He laid aside his last-minute prep on a showcase sample to give Tessa’s sketches a cursory glance, and despite his assertions that they were ‘extremely busy with several new clients,’ reluctantly agreed to squeeze them into the business’s schedule and set up a show room for ‘Stefan’s’ clients the following week.

  “It worked!” Natalie slammed the car door after sliding into the back seat. “I can’t believe it! You were amazing, Blake,” she added. “I totally believed in your performance, every word of it.”

  “You were amazing, actually,” said Tessa, whose face betrayed how much so for a second. “Where did you learn all those snobby little inflections?” she asked playfully, after making a quick recovery.

  “You were positively diva,” continued Natalie. “I loved it. Bravo to your one-man stage act.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed the show.” Blake loosened his tie, then pulled it off altogether. “One performance only, since from now on my assistant Ms. Miller will be handling all matters pertinent to the Groeder account. Oh, and bringing me my morning coffee and wholegrain muffin.”

  “Thanks for that demotion,” said Tessa with a touch of sarcasm. “Seriously. Where did you get the idea for your whole ‘assi
stant image’?”

  “Which is exactly what Stefan’s assistant would be like, if he has one,” said Natalie.

  Blake folded the eyeglasses—obviously false ones—and stowed them in the pocket of the coat. “Maybe I watch a few interior design shows now and then,” he said. “Some of the runway debacles like on What Not to Design. Decorators, designers, wedding planners—I figured they would be a lot alike. Call it a hunch, and I played it.”

  “I told you our luck was changing,” Tessa said over her shoulder to Natalie, before starting the car.

  “We owe him lunch as a thanks,” said Natalie. “We have a budget for taking professionals to lunch in your PR fund, right?” she asked Tessa.

  “You don’t have to do that,” said Blake, undoing his top button. “I can buy my own lunch.”

  “What, are you one of those guys who never lets a woman pay for anything?” Natalie answered.

  “It’s not that,” he said. “But I don’t have to see your account books to know this hasn’t been a stellar month for you financially—”

  “Thanks for making us feel extra small,” countered Natalie. “So it’s not that our money’s no good, it’s that we’re not rich enough to keep you from feeling guilty.”

  “Did I say that?” he protested.

  “Enough,” said Tessa, as she shifted the car into reverse. “We’re solvent financially, so it isn’t an issue whether we can buy someone lunch. We can thank Mr. Ellingham for his concern and assure him that we are fine.”

  “I didn’t mean to be insulting to either of you,” said Blake. “I would happily drink any cup of coffee you generously paid for,” he added to Natalie.

  “Nice of you to surrender,” she replied. Her phone beeped. “Great,” she said, groaning after glancing at the screen. “My latest hope in the fabric department just collapsed. I swear, it’s like we’re—”

  “—having a definite problem locating a good fabric warehouse, obviously,” Tessa interrupted firmly. “I’ll drop you off at Jimmy’s, if you want.” Jimmy Olander was Natalie’s best contact in the garment world, and could sometimes scrounge up the names of vendors who supplied bolts of limited or discontinued fabric weaves.